Irish Vice
by ProphIt
Summary: The Irish Mob expands from Boston to Florida, in Vice City. This is the story of Connor Harris, a young thug who intends to rise to the top of the ladder in Vice City.
1. Spell T R O U B L E

_**Vice City, 1987**_

I stood on the street corner, in a pair of plain khaki pants and a white wife-beater, with tinted dark-orange sun-glasses across my eyes. The world looks funny when it's in orange, you know . . . Anyway, Frankie wanted to meet me over at the North Point Mall, so I flicked my stub cigarette off into the street, and wandered down the side-walk, towards the mall.

The mall was about a mile away – maybe a five, ten minute walk. But as I kept walking, I had that feeling. You know that feeling that you get when you know that, out of a giant crowd of Florida hicks, there's some-one that isn't just _walking_. That there's some-one _stalking_ you.

I was right about that, too. Because, when I looked in the windshield of a passing car, I could see two guys tailing me. I didn't get a very good look at them, but I knew they were white. It was kinda' obvious, though; Haitians didn't straggle over to the east side of Vice, most times, unless they had serious business, and I didn't think the Haitians had serious business with me.

Deciding that I should lose my latest friends, or at least beat them down, I turned the corner into an alley-way. When the two blue-collar asses rounded the corner, they came face-to-face with a long, broken iron pipe which I'd swiped off the ground. I looked them over; they were _Street Sharks._ The Sharks were a gang mostly of greasy-haired white kids who grow up in poor back-grounds, and sort of form a group together, out of the necessity to survive, you know? I think they've been around since the late sixties – and they're all over. They just call them different names. I hear in Oklahoma, they're called something like Greasers.

"Whatta' you want, punks," I inquired in my thick South Boston voice. Both of them were taken aback; they didn't expect me to see them, I guess. They weren't very good sleuths, since I saw them so easy. When they didn't answer, I repeated myself – but no luck, they just shoved their hands in their pockets, and stared at me.

"C'mon, Dwayne," the more portly one said, "let's get outta' here." With that, the two boys backed off, one of them stepping forward, as if to scared me; it didn't work. So, they continued to leave, and I stood there grasping the pipe until I thought they were really gone. By now, the sun was setting in the corner of Vice City, and the sky was burned a pink, purple haze – I guess it's a result of the light pollution, and all that. Either way, it really looked beautiful.

The sound of ambulance sirens for someone I didn't know or care about brought me back to reality, and I remembered that Frank wanted me to meet him at the mall. My watch said it was eight oh-six, so I still had about ten minutes before I would be late enough for him to wonder.

I began to jog now, towards the mall. I could see it off in the distance, and slowed to a walk, keeping my eyes peeled in anything reflective for more of those greasy thugs following me. But none ever seemed to be visible, if they were there. I kept on going into the mall through the open entrance, until I spied the food court in the back – and there Frank was, sitting in a chair and eating a pizza.

"Connor!" Frank shouted out from about ten feet away, "Come on, come on, get over here." I did as he said, waltzing up and taking my seat in a chair across from him. I should explain Frank Bogart to you: Frank is one of the leading members of the Irish Mob in Vice City – or hell, even anywhere; he's a big-shot. He's massive, at six-foot two-inches, with at least two hundred fifty pounds on him, usually wearing an orange Hawaiian shirt and dirty jeans.

"What'd ya' want, Frank?" I inquired, taking a slice of pizza at his gesture. It really was kind of disgusting to watch him eat – he wasn't the best looking of guys out there, and dropping a pepperoni on his man-breasts sure didn't help him attract any women. Most of the women he hung out with were whores, anyway.

"Okay, here's the deal," Frank began to explain, "Mike and I have set up a deal, with the Haitians." I obviously had a look of something like stupor on my face, because of his reaction. "Yeah, I know, I don't like 'em either. But they're trading us some heavy drugs for some cheap artillery, in their little feud with the Colombians." "Cubans," I corrected him. "Whatever."

"Meet me at the hotel near Ocean Beach tomorrow, at nine PM, and we'll go to the meet." I nodded, and stood, scooting my chair in and leaving. As I rounded the corner, I could swear I heard hurried foot-steps, and caught a glimpse of denim.

_Somehow, this seemed like trouble to me . . ._


	2. Ambushed Mombo

The next morning, I woke up with my head throbbing. I'd spent the remainder of the night at the Malibu Club, and it had taken its toll on my brain, since I could tell that my alarm clock read _8:03._ Quickly, I threw the covers off me, and ran into the bathroom. By 8:30, I had my shower done, and was shoveling a frozen TV dinner down my throat, before running into my closet, and grabbing my jeans and white wife-beater. I threw my brown leather jacket on over that, threw my Red Sox cap on, and headed for the door.

Outside, it was pouring rain, and I wished I had a hoody to wear. Who knew it rained in Florida, right? So, I waltzed down to the parking lot of the hotel I was staying at, and quickly climbed into my Phoenix, pulling the SIG P228 I keep under my seat out, and shoving it into the front of my pants. Starting the car up, I pulled out of the hotel parking lot, and began driving towards the hotel in Ocean Beach. I wondered if this deal would go well, seeing as drug deals seemed to be infamous for going wrong, in my opinion.

Pulling into a parking space in front of the hotel, I shut the car off, and re-checked my gun. Stepping out of the car, I walked towards the front of the hotel, and walked through the open door into the lobby. Frank was standing in one corner, with about eight other people, two of which I knew as Mike and Jimmy McClain; they were brothers, and Mike was a bigger player than Frank, in the Irish Mob. Mike had a clean-shaven, trustable look to him, while Jimmy looked greasy, and somewhat like a rat. Frank beckoned me over, and I casually waltzed towards the group.

"What's up, fellas?" I asked, and both Frank and Mike pulled me over. "Here we go, here's our final player," said Mike, "let's ship out." With that, we all began to walk back out of the hotel, towards two vans that were parked across the street. One held at least six micks, while our group piled into the other. I was sat between Mike and Frank, and Mike began to explain to me as we were moving.

"The deal is going to go down on Starfish Island; neutral territory for both the Haitians and us. This Vercetti guy, you know, the Italians, are fine with us dealin' in one of the abandoned mansions there, so long as we don't start any trouble." I nodded, and Mike continued, "_You,_ Connor, are going to make the deal, what with your uh, negotiating skills, and all. We've got the weapons –" he gestured to a crate on the floor next to us "--and they've got the drugs, so you'll talk with them a bit, then we'll take the shit, and leave. Sound good?" I just nodded my head again, somewhat unsure about doing the deal myself, but not wanting to let anyone down.

By now, we'd arrived on Starfish Island, and we pulled casually into an obviously empty mansion, which would be run-down if it was anywhere else in Vice City. But for now, we parked in front of the steps leading up to the entrance, and all of us climbed out of the vans. All of a sudden, two Voodoo low-riders pulled in to block the exit. A few of us expected to be fired at, but nothing happened, so we pulled out two crates – one from each van – and walked into the mansion.

"Eh now, mon!" a heavy voice shouted from rickety old stairs leading to a second floor, "that tha' guns we axed cha' for?" he inquired. I walked forward, deciding this was my turn to speak. I was sweating under my jacket, and dripping from the rain outside, but I still felt confident – as confident as I could feel talking to the leader of a group of psychotic Haitians, anyway.

"Yeah, this is the weapons; do you have the drugs?" I asked him. He gestured to two men, who brought out at least a dozen thick suit-cases. They opened all of them up, and there was a variety of colors; in one case there was several bags filled with a white, powdery substance. In another, was bags filled with multi-color pills. In a third was bags filled with green, leaf-like substance.

"Y'got every t'ing y'could smoke an' snort under tha' sun right there, m'friend. Ecstasy, pot, co'-caine, hell, w'even threw in som' aspirins, ahahah!" All of the Haitians roared laughter. We didn't find it that funny, but you know, to each his own, I guess.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. . . . ?" I inquired. Just as he began to say his name – some odd foreign name – a bullet rang out, mixed with the sound of glass breaking, my ears ringing. All of a sudden, Mr. Bibbly Diddly, or whatever his name was, was on the floor, bleeding, and everyone around me was scampering to get behind something. I was frozen, and out of nowhere, Frank tackled me to the floor – keep in mind Frank is a large man – just in time for him to get hit in the shoulder by a bullet meant for my head.

I turned to him, "Holy fuck Frank, are you ok –" I began to shout, but he silenced me, and told me to get to safety. There was no way I was leaving a man who had saved my life, so I pulled my gun out, and fired at the window, where a Cuban was standing, apparently having climbed a ladder. I hit him right in the stomach, and he grunted, then twisted around and fell, blood squirting onto the grass below before he even landed with a noise I could hear even from inside the mansion.

As more Cubans began to climb up the ladders and jump into the mansion on the second floor, I hauled Frank over to the side, behind the stairs. "Okay, Frank, you stay here – I'm going to fucking kill these dick-sucking hairy fucks, and get our shit. Shoot anyone who runs in here except for our boys – yeah?" He nodded, clearly in a lot of pain from his arm-shot. He was a big, big boy, so I doubted the bullet even got deep enough to do him much damage, but if I didn't get him to a doctor within a few hours, he'd be gone.

I quickly ran out of hiding, but slid to the floor as a bullet narrowly missed my nose. Firing blindly at its direction, I hit a Cuban in the leg, and he screamed in agony, falling forward and breaking the wooden banister on the second floor as he fell, and broke something vital to him when he landed. I quickly jumped back up and spotted our boys half-way across the room – they'd busted into the crates and taken out the AK-47s we'd packed in there, firing them wildly at Cubans, who were dropping like flies.

"COME ON," I shouted to them, "WE GOTTA' GET OUR SHIT!" over the loud roar of bullets pinging back and forth between Irishmen and Haitians, and Cubans. The Cubans had brought what appeared to be an army, since the combined forces of two dozen Haitians, and a dozen and a half Irishmen weren't enough to stop them.

Sprinting towards the middle of the room, I quickly picked up three suitcases filled with whatever, and held them under my arms, bolting towards the front doors as bullets trailed in my wake. But I was thrown over as the doors were kicked in by large, hairy men wearing Hawaiian shirts – Italians. The suitcases I had were knocked to the floor, and the contents of one of them spilled out, while the other two remained closed.

As Italian men pounded past me on the floor, one of them stopped and helped me to my feet, and then they all continued onward, firing at the Cubans. In the years since Vercetti's take-over of Vice City, the Cuban and Italian relationship had diminished, and now they were just as at war with them as the Haitians. While they weren't exactly the friends of Haitians, they _were_ going to protect Starfish Island to the death.

Ignoring them, I jumped back up, and grabbed two of the suitcases, not bothering with the emptied one, and continued out of the mansion with two of our boys following me, both carrying all but one or two of the other cases of drugs. We quickly shoved them into one of the vans, and checked our weapons, rushing back into the mansion to help the Italians, Haitians, and our own brothers.

As we got inside, though, glass was raining on us. One shard cut across my cheek, and it immediately started pouring blood – but I ignored it, looking up and shielding my face from the glass with my leather-covered arm. It was the fucking SWAT team! Four men were rappelling down into the room from the ceiling glass panels, dressed in Kevlar and hoisting M4s. I took aim, and fired at one of them mid-rappel. He screamed out loudly as a bullet hit his midsection, and his grip on the rope vanished, leaving him to spiral the rest of the way down, right in front of me. As he hit the ground, he was essentially liquidated, and his blood splattered all over me sickeningly. It was almost enough to make me vomit then and there.

But I put my pistol back into my pants, and grabbed the M4 which he was carrying, quickly turning the safety off and firing at anyone I saw who I was against. I dropped another SWAT member before they hit the ground, and hit at least half a dozen Cubans before they could get anywhere. Within a few minutes, all of the gang members were now on one side, trying to stop the SWAT members that seemed to be pouring into the building.

I gave up finishing them off, and bolted back to where I had left Frank, where Mike was now crouched down, firing shots from his revolver at SWAT members and the occasional Cuban, if he felt he needed to. "COME ON GUYS, WE HAVE TO GO!" I shouted to them, and Mike nodded. We helped Frank to his feet both, and began to half walk, half sprint towards the door with him holding onto our shoulders. But suddenly, I was carrying all his weight, as a bullet cracked through Mike's skull, and he dropped to the floor, his eyes staring up at some place that the living could never see.

Jimmy rushed up and helped me carry Frank the rest of the way to the empty van, putting him in the back and turning around to fire more shots into the mansion, which was still raging with battle. "Where the fuck was you, Jimmy?" I asked him, remembering I hadn't really seen him the whole night. He didn't respond to my question, though, as about half a dozen Irishmen ran out of the house.

Suddenly, an explosion rocked the area, and threw us all down. I slammed my head into the van door, grunting as I slammed into the ground. I could only hear ringing in my ears, but it slowly faded back to sound, and I could hear crumbling. Opening my eyes, I saw the mansion slowly breaking apart, and bits of the roof collapsing and falling in. A VCPD helicopter took off with a few members inside it, and flew off into the dark night sky, leaving the whole area quiet except for the sound of flames coming from inside.

I stood back up. "I'll take the van with the shit in it back to the hide-out, you go with the boys and take Frank to the hospital, and meet back up with me at the Ocean Beach hotel." I nodded, and Mike jogged over to the van we'd loaded the drugs in, and started it up, pulling out and driving off some direction. I turned, and walked over to our van – all our boys had loaded up, and I started the van up, driving off and heading for the hospital.

_I knew this would be trouble . . ._


	3. Bittersweet Taste

I walked out of Frank's hospital room – I always did like the Vice City public hospitals; they never seemed to ask questions as to _why_ you were in some horrible, awful condition, so long as you tided them over with a bit of cash. Frank was going to be alright, but he needed rest for a couple of days, since he had apparently lost a good bit of blood. I set three men guarding the room – in case the Cubans decided to return – and paid off Frank's doctor to make sure that his medical chart and whereabouts weren't released to the Vice City Police Department, and then headed for the exit. By now, the sun was rising, and the air was humid, and a warm with the feeling of a new day.

I took the van and, deciding I had time before I needed to meet Jimmy, drove it off to a chop-shop and let them scrap it for money. Hell, the van needed to be disposed of, and I could use the extra five grand it brought in. From there, I found an unlocked car sitting in the middle of nowhere, and wired it pretty easily, driving off towards my hotel. When I got there, my Phoenix was sitting in the parking-lot; I'd asked one of the three of our guys I'd let go to head over to the Ocean Drive hotel and put it back in front of my hotel for me, since I needed a change of clothes badly.

Within half-an-hour I'd changed into an over-shirt, buttoned up to the last two buttons, which exposed my chest and golden cross necklace. Hey, Catholicism, what're you gonna' do, you know? I had a decent meal across the street, and moved back over to my car, getting in and heading towards the Ocean Drive hotel. When I got there and went inside the always open doors, I looked around and found that Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, I pulled out my cellular phone, and dialed his number – I heard a ringing upstairs.

As Jimmy picked up his phone with a nervous, "Y-yeah?" I casually asked, "Where ya' at, Jimmy?" He didn't answer for a second, but by now I was already in front of his room door. "I'm in the hotel, where are you?" I inquired again. "I'm –" he began, as he opened the door to his room, but stopped and dropped his phone out of surprise. I hung mine up and put it into my pocket again. It was then I realized there had been no van parked outside.

"Where're the _drugs_, Jimmy?" I asked, now getting rather angry. Without being invited, I walked into his room slowly, and he backed up, almost as if he was afraid. "Okay, l-look Connor, I mean I, I didn't mean to –" he said, now sitting on his bed with his hands out in front of him, as if to stop me from moving any further. "You didn't mean to _what_, Jimmy?" I asked.

"Look C-Conner, the fucking Cubans ambushed me on the way over here!" When he finished, I suddenly found myself filled with murderous rage. "WHAT?" I shouted at him. "TELL ME YOU DIDN'T LOSE THE GOD DAMN DRUGS – THE GOD DAMN DRUGS, JIMMY, THAT WE ALL NEARLY _DIED_ FOR – THAT YOUR BROTHER _DID_ DIE FOR!" I had him by the collar now, and he was shaking with fear. With a scowl, I shoved him back onto the bed, and made my way to the door.

"Wh-Where're you goin', Connor?" he asked, and I said, without turning around, "I'm going to go fucking kill some Cubans." With that, I left, slamming his door behind me so hard that it bounced back open as I made my way down the hall. When I got out to the lobby, a few people were staring at me, but when I noticed, they quickly turned back to their conversations, or whatever else they were doing.

I fumbled with my keys lightly at the door to the Phoenix, until I got it unlocked, and stepped in. "God damn Cubans . . . going to fucking kill th –" suddenly, my fuming speech was stopped by steel pressing against the back of my neck. _"Keep driving . . ."_ the man said. He had an Italian accent, but not the same as Vercetti's boys – more like a 'hood – a _Shark._

So, as he instructed, I kept driving. He told me to pull over into an alleyway, and I did, parking the car where no one could see us. He told me to get out – so I did, with my hands up. When we got a few paces away from the car, I turned around to look at the Shark. Just as I suspected; a greasy-haired little teenager with a denim jacket on, and a Colt pointed at my stomach.

"Gonna' shoot me?" I asked him. He laughed, but didn't respond. Suddenly, my phone rang in the alleyway. He told me to answer it, and I did. A voice I didn't quite recognize met my ears, but I could tell it was one of us.

"Jesus Christ, Connor! Th-the Cubans are here, the Cubans and those Sharks! Holy fuck, they're going to kill us, holy fuck Con –" the phone suddenly hit the floor, and I heard a loud scream. I smiled at the Shark, who was slightly taken back by it. "So you guys are working with the Cubans?" I asked. He clearly didn't care how I knew this, but either way, I told him I had to put my phone away.

I slowly put it back into my pocket, but as I was bring my hand back up, it found my SIG P288, and I hurled myself to the floor. A bullet was fired from the boy's gun, and would've hit me, had I still be in the same place. But instead, four shots rapidly came out of my gun, and all of them hit him in the stomach. He dropped his gun, but stood there, clutching his pouring-blood stomach and staring at me.

I stood up calmly, and frowned at him. He looked so young. "The world's cold, kid. Sorry you had to find out like this." With that said, I put my gun to his head, and fired one last shot through his brain. He flew backwards and slammed into the hood of my Phoenix, slipping off and leaving a large trail of blood as he did so. I put my gun away, and quickly dialed a number on my cell phone.

"Yeah, it's Connor – Frank's in trouble, meet me at the Ammu-Nation in five, and bring a van and a few guys." With that, I turned my cell phone away again, and headed for my car. As I started it up, and roared off for the Ammu-Nation, one thing bothered me: I had paid the doctors and nurses, and no one had tailed us to the hospital. How did the Cubans and Sharks find out where Frank had been?

_I smelled a rat . . ._


	4. Hospital Vendetta

**A/N:** I haven't written here in well over a year. Getting back into writing, I thought I'd stop by and at least try to finish up one of the stories I left hanging - especially since I'd written a good portion of this one, and had a lot planned for it. Oh well. Here's the next chapter, and hopefully I'll remember and continue with another one relatively soon; I'm tired of forgetting my shit.

The Ammu-Nation – located in all your major U

The Ammu-Nation – located in all your major U.S. cities – was a front in and of itself. It was a gun store, pretending to be a gun store, literally. It sold guns legally to keep appearances, but in actuality, most of its customers were there because they needed illegal guns, plenty of ammunition, and low prices.

I happened to be one of those people, on this very unfortunate day.

My Phoenix was parked in front of the gun shop, awaiting my boys. It was such a nice car; white, with a blue, flaming phoenix – clever, right – painted onto the hood. Now, the windshield was splinter-cracked from the center outwards, and there was a large blood stain on the front. No-one seemed to ask me about any of that, curiously, as I sat in the parking lot of the gun shop, looking extremely pissed as I leaned on the front of my car.

"Connor!"

I looked up; it was them, my infantry. I smiled, and gestured to the Ammu-Nation's double doors, then began walking towards them. I had called ahead to the shop, as our 'organization' was a regular customer for large orders, and told them exactly what we needed.

Two dozen Irishmen walked out of the Ammu-Nation, all of them toating guns. A few of them were holding, openly, SW MP-10 sub-machine guns, while some others had your classic Winchester Defender pump-gun. I myself had a lovely M4 Carbine hanging from my right arm. Underneath all of our shirts, covering our hairy, Catholic, cross-wearing chests, were sets of Kevlar bullet-proof armor.

We were ready for war.

Jesus laughed a thick, spiteful laugh, and ducked under his Glendale to begin reloading his Micro Uzi. Three other Cubans were to his right, and three cars in total surrounded the mouth of the hospital, perhaps a dozen sweaty Latino men and a half-dozen Sharks arranged around it. The Irishmen put on Frank Bogart's hospital bed were at the hospital doors, making pot-shots at them. It had only been about ten minutes since the initial attack, and there was probably about half an hours' time before any cops showed up, depending on how far away they were.

Suddenly, a nice white Phoenix found its way onto the street and skid to a halt, door facing away from the hospital. A van followed it, and made a sharp handbrake turn to stop. The back of the van doors opened up, attracting the attention of the Sharks and Cubans, and out spilled over twenty Irishmen at least, all wearing some kind of identifying mark like a Red Sox hat.

When I jumped out of my Phoenix, two other boys with me, Cubans and Sharks were already being down in the street. I looked to my left, saw one go down with a sickening crack of a bullet to the forehead; to my right, another, with numerous automatic rounds to his stomach.

I reached for my gun –

-- and had to duck as a bullet tore its way through the neck of one of my friends beside me. War was a bitch, right? I already knew that.

Taking the carbine I'd gotten earlier out of the floor-board of my Phoenix, I slung it over my shoulder and took aim. I pointed the sleek barrel of the gun at one of the Sharks – I recognized him from somewhere – and pulled the trigger. It was a single-fire, so one bullet ripped out of the chamber of the gun and landed in the Shark's face, sending him to the ground, falling like he'd slipped on something.

After only a few minutes, there were only a few Cubans and Sharks left, and they had nowhere to go; if they retreated into the hospital, our guys in there would fill 'em up. Out here, it was just a waiting game of shooting back and forth until they wound up dead.

Making the only rational decision, all of them loaded up into two of their cars and a motorcycle, and sped off in opposite directions. I lunged over the corpse of a fallen ally and made several shots at the retreating motorcycle; the heavy-set man on the bitch seat of the bike took a few M4 rounds to the back, and toppled off of the bike, sending the vehicle crashing and most likely killing the driver.

I pointed at the remaining guys I'd brought with me, then to the Cuban car making its way down the streets.

"Go after them! Follow them back to their shitty little hide-out, and kill as many of the fucks as you can! We'll take on the Sharks at their own place later."

They all took my orders to heart, and jumped back into the van, shouting out obscenities and generally having a high moral for the situation. The van tore off down the road, and I tossed my M4 into my Phoenix, heading for the stairs to the hospital as quick as I could.

We – by we, I mean me and two of the living guys who had been assigned to guard Frank – rushed into his hospital room to make sure he was alright. He appeared fine; he was awake, so he'd been given his revolver just in case anyone made it into the room. When everything was as normal as it could be, I considered talking to him about my suspicions of a traitor in our organization. I figured, though, he'd had enough trouble for the day, and I'd wait until he got out of the hospital in a few days to talk to him.

Meanwhile, I made my way back to my Phoenix, sirens wailing in the distance. Starting up the car, I made my way towards a repair-shop; before I started parading around town in the car, I figured that getting it fixed up would be a good idea.

So it was there, sitting outside of a repair shop and drinking a cup of coffee with a cigarette that I began to plot my attack on the Sharks, and waited for a call back from our boys about the Cubans.


End file.
